The horse was soon saddled, and Smith reported at the Signal office at five o’clock.
“What’s doing, Mac?”
“Light Horse Brigade, Romani.” The signal-master read out the address as he handed over the despatch to Smith.
“Where’s Romani, Mac?”
Mac, the signal-master, came outside and pointed across an unbroken stretch of desert to the east.
“About five miles in that direction, I think,” he replied. “Keep near the railway line and you’ll be pretty right.”
Smith departed, and rode out into the gathering dusk of the East. He had never heard of Romani before, nor did he know how many miles he had to travel across this desert, where the Turk had been but a few hours ago, to reach the place; so he spurred his horse on over the heavy sand and covered four miles in quick time.
“We ought to be there before dark.” He spoke to the horse rather than to himself. “We’ve covered a good four miles now.”
He rode on over the level places, climbed the loose sand of the steep, razor-backed dunes, and slid down their opposite slopes to the level again, until another four miles had been crossed; yet he had not reached Romani. The darkness found him still pushing east over the toilsome, never-ending sand, with a set of new northern stars for guides.
A desert dog started up at his horse’s feet, yelped away into the night, and threw the horse into a panic of fear; a stunted bush loomed in the darkness ahead and took on the shape of a crouching figure, sinister in the gloom. Here was a dilemma!